BigSaltyDog

The tea in Sergeant Salty’s mug had gone completely cold, but nobody dared point it out. On the screen of the battered CRT television, a dramatic voiceover blared over grainy phone footage: “Ireland’s Joyriding Crisis: High-Speed Thrills and Local Terror!” The footage showed a stolen hatchback doing chaotic, smoke-filled donuts at a suburban junction while a group of teenagers filmed it on their phones. Whizzley was practically leaning into the glass, his eyes wide, twirling a screwdriver between his fingers. “Look at the diff on that! Proper locked differential! Well, either that or he’s completely bald on the left rear, which is statistically more likely in—” “It’s a disgrace is what it is,” rumbled Ye Olde Large Lad from his reinforced armchair, which creaked in direct proportion to his outrage. He gestured with a half-eaten pork pie. “In my day, if you stole a car, you at least had the decency to chop it for parts in silence. Filming it? Making a production out of it? A...